Soul's Work

She ran in, cheeks flushed from playing outdoors, and curled up beside me. I started running my fingers through her hair and listened as her mind unwound.

She told me of the beauty of the birds as they chirped in trees just outside. Then she counted on her long, delicate fingers the days until Halloween and then the days until Thanksgiving and then the days until Christmas. She asked about why we celebrate Christmas and then why do we celebrate Easter. She buried her face in my chest when I mentioned Christ dying. That part makes her sad. But her eyes peaked out again when I got to the part about Christ living with his Father in heaven now. She innocently said, "like your father." What's that, I asked. "Like your father is in Heaven too." Yes, like my father.

Then she curled up knees and snuggled in deeper. I kept running my fingers through her hair, breathing in the sweet scent of her. Quiet, we sat, mother and child. A moment, my heart was refreshed, as was her's.

She bounded off again as spontaneously as she had appeared. The feel of her lingered. I closed my eyes and thanked God for her, for them all. For the beautiful lot that is my soul's work.